Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Best Breakfast

For my birthday yesterday, my mother sent me two loaves of my favorite bread. I love this bread so much, I've been known to pet and cuddle it a bit before getting out the serrated knife. My sweetheart got me some Egg Pants. There is a certain kind of warmth that comes from feeling that those that love you also really get you. I had that warm feeling in spades this morning over buttered toast, soft boiled eggs and tea. And since soft-boiled eggs are one of those things you need measurements for, here they are, for the next time you or I need some drippy yellow love for breakfast:

Soft-Boiled Eggs

four eggs (two for you, two for me)

Boil 8 cups of water in a three quart saucepan. Add four eggs straight from the fridge to the boiling water (gently). Set the timer for five minutes. Regulate the temperature so that the water boils genteelly. No ruckus. After five minutes, take them out and rinse them under cool water. Pat dry and eat, thinking of your great-grandmother, who taught you how to take the lids off.

Egg Update:
Today, a day late in October when I have a lot on my mind, I asked my blog to remind me of the way to make soft boiled eggs, and I proceeded to take many distracted, unintentional liberties with this recipe. The water wasn't quite at a rollicking boil when I put the eggs in, I forgot to monitor the subsequent boil to prevent ruckus, I skipped the cool water bath, and there were sad results. One of the four developed a gruesome rupture and sprouted a bulbous white beard. All of them, upon opening, were discovered to have whites that were tough and rubbery right next to the shell and underdone to the point of wobbly translucency further inside. The moral? Only make soft-boiled eggs if you are in a state to stand lovingly by and focus your full attention on their development. Or, failing that, just try to follow directions.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


Q: Can you add week old gazpacho to chili? It seems compatible, except for the cucumbers. And the vinegar. And the bread. And the anchovies.

A: You can, if you dump in a little extra cumin to give the chili a fighting chance. It will smell peculiar for the first 20 minutes, but then the gazpacho will finally surrender and the chili will emerge victorious. No one will be able to tell unless they hunt for bits of cucumber rind. And if they're hunting for bits of cucumber rind in their chili, you have a tough crowd and my sympathy.

Q: If you spit a cherry pit into the ocean in the vicinity of some ducks, will they race over and nibble it enthusiastically before rejecting it?

A: Yes.

Q: Will they repeat the racing, nibbling, and rejection for a second pit?

A: Yes.

Q: How many cherry pits will they race to, nibble, and spit out before they learn?

A. This question was not settled in this limited experiment. Something above seventeen.

Q: Isn't spitting cherry pits into the ocean littering? Aren't you wrecking the planet?

A: Yes.

Q: Does wading in to pick up a plastic deli container, a water bottle, and four cigarette butts make up for spitting seventeen cherry pits into the ocean?

A. Yes. Now put a cork in it.